probably
by orangish
Summary: Daryl and Glenn have a conversation on top of the RV. Pre-slash, Daryl/Glenn


**probably**

**pre-slash daryl/glenn**

* * *

Sleep usually never came to Daryl.

He lay awake, eyes open, staring at the tent canvas above him. It was about to be his turn to keep watch in half an hour, and he barely got one moment of sleep. To be honest, maybe he did, maybe he didn't. Complete darkness and his own reality weren't quite different.

Sitting up, Daryl rubbed at his eyes. Might as well start the shift early. He buttoned up his shirt and crawled out of the tent. Dale's RV was a few metres away and he could clearly see Glenn perched on the top, back facing him. The sky was ink black, spread out as far as Daryl could see, like a painting. The moon wasn't out tonight. Glenn was a silhouette against it, with a small solar lamp aglow beside him.

With close to no electricity in the whole entire world, Daryl could actually see the stars. He turned his attention back to Glenn's figure.

No other word could describe Glenn other than _good_. Honestly, Daryl was sure Glenn was ranking pretty high for the noble people in the group, probably right next to Rick. High morals. Daryl figured there were two types of people in this world—people like Glenn, and people like Merle. Glenn was smart, too. He could find his way around anywhere, come up with all the shortcuts, and know escape routes just by looking at a place. And what did he do before the world ended? Deliver pizzas. Jeez.

Daryl started to climb up the ladder. When he reached the top, Glenn turned around in his chair, eyes still alert in the darkness. Daryl saw him relax his grip on the baseball bat he was holding. The kid smiled at him, white teeth glinting in the mild light from the lamp. He got up and gathered his things.

Daryl only gave a non-committal grunt and took a seat. Glenn was almost always smiling. Daryl wondered how that was possible.

"Good, I was falling asleep up here," Glenn said. Daryl looked up at him. Even he could come up with a couple better lies than that. Glenn could lie when he wanted to, Daryl was sure. Glenn was probably too wired to doze off on watch, anyway. Like him.

Getting no response, Glenn made his way down the RV and disappeared from Daryl's sight.

The night settled around Daryl once again. It was warm, too warm; the humidity uncomfortably stuck to him like wet denim. He heard crickets, the buzz of flies. An owl hooting. Like when he was a child, running away from Merle, from his parents, to sit at the pond further from their house. Only himself… and his thoughts. For a moment, he desperately wanted Glenn to be back, _anybody_, to talk to him so he could escape the agonizing cycle of his own mind.

Daryl didn't want to think about the walkers. Didn't want to think about Andrea crying over a monster that used to be her sister. About back at the medical facility. About Jacqui, that doctor, _choosing_ to die… The thoughts were back, whether he should've stayed, let himself be consumed by the fire before something else consumed it. At that time, he had only thought about survival, but it would've been an easier way out in there than by starvation, would it? Or by the hands and mouths of rotting corpses, would it?

Daryl choked back a gasp as he realised how his hands had been trembling and how close they were to the handle of his crossbow.

Almost as if a gift from God, Glenn's head appeared over the top of the RV.

"Daryl?"

Daryl watched him absently, still a bit occupied by his thoughts.

Glenn, who must've seen the lost and broken expression on Daryl's face, stood up and made his way over, unfolding a lawn chair and plopping it next to Daryl. He sat down, eyes fixed on Daryl's.

Daryl broke their stare and looked away, out into the shadows. Glenn's gaze made him shiver, made his stomach do a couple back-flips. He wondered briefly if this was normal.

"Couldn't sleep," the kid explained himself, answering the unspoken question between them. Daryl was never much of a talker.

Daryl harrumphs and leans back into his chair. Yes, he wanted a distraction, but now that the distraction was here, Daryl wasn't sure how to continue. Glenn seemed to be waiting for him to say something. The silence was a bit awkward. Then Daryl remembered: he couldn't sleep either.

"Why?" Daryl asked, and ventured a look in Glenn's direction. He wondered if the kid's reasons were the same as his. Heck, probably the whole camp couldn't sleep much now, haunted by thoughts of Jacqui and the doctor.

Glenn looked relieved as if he was being given permission to talk. Although, Daryl figured, had Glenn been in any other situation, he would've just run his mouth off anyway.

"I'm always wondering if it's better to die now, by my own choice. If there's even a _point_ to sticking it out here in the woods. Is there a reason? Like the guy said, getting healed or getting this whole mess fixed up is probably never gonna happen," Glenn babbled. His words spilled out his mouth like they were oxygen and he'd been holding his breath for a long time.

He looked so heartbroken, so terrified, an image of pure torment on his face. He looked like he could be a trembling eight year old boy.

When Daryl was eleven, he had been quietly kicking a tin can around in the corner of the school yard, minding his own business, when he heard a sniffling behind him. It was recess and Daryl never really played with the other kids, and he was on his own, and he _could have _left the sniffling alone, but _no_, he had to turn around and look. A boy, probably eight or nine, was crouched against the fence and was crying, wiping furiously at his face. Daryl had approached him. You couldn't really just _not_ do anything, could you?

Merle wouldn't have even looked in the boy's direction.

What's wrong, Daryl had asked. My parents, the small boy wailed, they're fighting, they won't stop. They hurt me.

And Daryl didn't know what to say. His own parents fought too. Father beat him, too. Maybe it was the kid's fault for being weak, but Daryl was old enough to know not every kid could handle stuff like that. Me, too, he had mumbled to the child. So why couldn't he give a scrap of comfort? He was so caught up in trying to think of something encouraging to say, feeling helpless, that he didn't hear the school bell ring. The little boy got up and ran away, and Daryl couldn't take the moment back, couldn't say anything more. The next day, he noticed the boy wasn't there anymore, had left the school. Probably taken away by some government people.

Daryl had never seen this side of Glenn; he'd only seen boisterous, happy, optimistic, clever Glenn. The helpless feeling returned to Daryl full force, and he shut his eyes.

"'_Probably'_. You said 'this whole mess getting fixed up is _probably_ never gon' happen'," Daryl said, not sure if he was doing this whole comforting thing right. But in a way, he was comforting himself. "Isn't 'probably' good enough for you to keep goin'?"

Glenn stopped talking, eyes wide. A strange look Daryl didn't know passed over his face, and he turned away, but even from the side he could tell tears were glistening in Glenn's eyes.

Shit, he didn't mean to make the kid _cry_. It had happened again. Daryl wouldn't be able to take the moment back.

Daryl was about to apologise when Glenn whispered hoarsely, "Yeah."

Daryl was taken aback. "What?"

"Yeah, you're right. A 'probably' is good enough." The kid faced him again, solemn. In the dim light provided by the lamp, his eyes were a warm brown, making Daryl's stomach churn in a not unpleasant way. "Thanks. Maybe that's what Andrea needs to recognise. What all of us need to recognise."

Silence fell once more, but it was a safe, companionable one.

Daryl couldn't believe it. Maybe it was the sweltering heat of the night that was playing with Glenn's brain. Daryl's own words, his own thoughts, he'd expressed them and he'd actually _helped someone. _Daryl, empowered by this, reached across and gently touched Glenn's slender hand.

Glenn looked shocked yet again, but then a wide, content smile broke across his face. He squeezed Daryl's hand, reassuring, and it warmed Daryl to the tips of his toes, even though it was already quite hot. This was a nice kind of warmth, though.

Friendship.

A few moments passed and Glenn was still holding his hand, tight, as if it was some sort of lifeline.

Maybe something more.

Yes, a _probably_ was all he needed to keep going, to keep pushing, to keep _hope_, to keep those dangerous thoughts at bay.

Daryl closed his eyes, enjoying the peace. The little boy from the school yard looked up at him with the same grateful expression as Glenn's, and Daryl felt a weight lift off his chest.


End file.
